


Gone Too Soon

by Zelos



Category: Captain America (2011), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, Betrayal, Blood we choose, Community: avengerkink, Dysfunctional Family, Ensemble Cast, Families of Choice, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Prompt Fic, Team, Unconventional Families, surrogate father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/8247.html?thread=18142007">prompt</a> at avengerkink:</p><blockquote>
  <p>I've always wondered if Tony has ever been able to do anything to really process and deal with Stane's betrayal. I mean, the cover story which SHIELD worked up seems as if it would require Tony to at least some public show of grief for his dear father-figure who was taken from him too soon, and this would be a performance which he'd have to repeat.</p>
</blockquote><p>A victim should not grieve his murderer, however unsuccessful the attempt.</p><p>Tony Stark, and the process of grieving Obadiah Stane.</p><p>(Or, five times Tony grieved for Obadiah, and the one time he stopped pretending to.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Too Soon

**Author's Note:**

> These [screencaps](http://shleeping.tumblr.com/post/21066003250/you-guys-weve-been-spelling-them-wrong-the-whole) indicate that the correct spellings for Tony's bots are actually Dum-E and U, although I've appropriated them to Dummy and You because I hate non-standard English. [Other sources](http://glomdi.deviantart.com/art/I-Love-Dummy-160307487?offset=20) indicate that 'butterfingers' seem to be a nickname (or an old script name) for You, as the name was only mentioned once (“You, butterfingers”) in IM1 and not at all in IM2. The novelization apparently specifies the two arms as Dummy and You.

**1.**

 

It would be weeks before the public remembered Obadiah Stane. Compared to the news of the foremost (now former) weapons manufacturer the world over donning an iron ( _gold titanium_ , damn it) suit and saving the world, his death didn't even bear mentioning – even if he had once been closer than blood to the Iron Man himself.

Tony'd sent Pepper to deal with the fallout, and sent Happy to help her; Agent Coulson was probably keeping watch while simultaneously doctoring Obie's death. (He'd stick to the cards for that one, at least.) Then he left the hospital (trailing SHIELD's jury-rigged electromagnet that supplemented his dying arc reactor, and _goddamn it_ if the sight of it didn't send chills down his spine) and immediately headed to his workshop.

“JARVIS? Hey, buddy,” and You and Dummy met him with what could almost be called a hug. “Hey.” That was _not_ a lump in his throat, nope nuh-uh no, but Tony allowed himself one shuddering breath around his smile.

“Welcome home, sir,” JARVIS said; few others could've heard the soft relief there.

 

“Jesus,” Tony frowned at his phone, still stubbornly emitting the same dreary dial tone. “Pepper, pick up - ”

“Miss Potts will be occupied by the shareholder's meeting for another two hours,” JARVIS supplied.

“Fuck.” He terminated the call, glared uselessly at the flickering reactor in his chest. On his left, You whirred concernedly; Tony ignored him, running one bandaged hand over the release switch. He still has _wires_ coming out of his chest.

...it didn't matter, anyway. Pepper'd told him in no uncertain terms that she was never replacing his reactor again.

“I don't have anyone but you,” he'd told her. It stung, that he'd somehow _recognized_ that Pepper was the only one he could call, even _before_ the man he'd considered a surrogate father ripped his heart out from his chest.

How had he missed it? And, simultaneously – how had he _seen?_

On his right, Dummy prodded him with the new arc reactor.

“I'm okay,” he said automatically, the barest catch in his voice. “I'm okay. Dummy, c'mere,” bodily dragging him closer, a little easier to reach. A steadying breath, and -

“Sir? _Sir_ ,” JARVIS interrupted, and You caught his wrist.

“It's _fine_ , JARVIS,” he gritted out, “You, knock it off, that hurts - ”

“Less so, sir, than replacing the reactor yourself.”

“They don't have the precision required - ”

“Perhaps not, sir,” JARVIS agreed gently. “But _I do_.”

And _that_ made Tony freeze and stare blankly, almost searching the ceilings for a face. He huffed a laugh, threw one hand over suddenly stinging eyes. “I did _not_ implement sensor-net uplinking capabilities into Dummy or You.”

“No, sir.” A holographic grid flared across his chest, more to illustrate than to instruct. “But you _did_ design intelligence, our abilities to comprehend and obey instructions.” The grid-lines' resolution expanded thousand-fold, denoting increments far smaller than what he'd programmed into Dummy or You. “You designed us to think and know when to request more information. You designed us to _learn._ ”

And Tony couldn't think of anything to respond to that. He thus remained silent as You and Dummy operated on him with a pair of pliers, guided by a hairline-precise resolution and wireless instructions. Watching, speechless, as they freed the malfunctioning arc reactor and seated the new one with a reassuring hiss and click.

Tony sat up, the pressure easing in his chest. He ran an experimental thumb against the surface, felt the reassuring comfort of cool metal, Dummy on one side, You on the other. Tony glanced upwards, swallowed hard, surrounded by the family he's built. The only family he has left.

“Thanks,” he finally said, because there really was nothing else to say.

“Always, sir.” Quiet relief, and JARVIS ventured, after a moment, “I am...glad that you are well.”

Once upon a time, Obie had been family too – more so than his own father. Now, he was just ashes and scrap metal and a fabricated headline in the papers.

“I wish he was too,” Tony said softly to the air; JARVIS and his bots wisely remained silent.

 

**2.**

 

“Mr. Stark!” A wave of surprised heads looked up as Tony strode into the room to a chorus of his name.

“Gentlemen,” he acknowledged, and a man in a navy suit – Cheung, was it? - leaped up to offer Tony his seat. Tony took it without preamble or thanks, sitting stiffly into the still-warm leather. Pepper remained standing behind Tony until another man in a charcoal suit sheepishly offered her his chair.

“So glad you could join us, Mr. Stark.” The man at the head of the table, dressed in a sharp suit as grey as his hair, glanced awkwardly at his vacated colleagues before turning back to Tony. “I hope you're feeling - ”

“You're in the wrong seat,” Tony interrupted.

The room fell into uncomfortable silence, punctured by the occasional rasp of fabric as men shifted guiltily in their chairs. Pepper stilled, a regal statue in a business suit, her gaze burning hot on Tony's face. Tony ignored her.

Finally, Grey Suit coughed. “Mr. Stark - ”

“I mean it. Hamilton - ” No, that was Richardson, but never mind “ - that's _Obie's_ seat. _Get out_.”

Richardson flinched at the harsh crack of Tony's voice, but did as bidden; Tony watched every step, the intensity of his expression at odds with the medical tape criss-crossing his face.

“We apologize, Mr. Stark,” Cheung offered, trying to ease the tension; Richardson seated himself again. “No one...we didn't mean to imply that anyone took his place.”

There was a savage twist to Tony's mouth, and Pepper shot him a _look_ ; Tony balled his hands into fists, suddenly struck with an urge to laugh hysterically or flip the table. _Pepper_ got it, of _course_ she did, she _always_ did – she was the _only one_ who did. The _rest_ of them were offering condolences for a man that'd nearly _killed_ him, and _damn_ SHIELD and their necessary web of lies, damn them for making him _grieve_.

A victim should not grieve his murderer, however unsuccessful the attempt.

“Mr. Stane had partnered with this company since its inception; we all owe its success to him – as well as you and your father, of course.” Another insipid opinion, timid and weak. “He will never be forgotten, and will always be irreplaceable.”

No, it wasn't about _replacing_. He _wanted_ that seat empty. He _wanted_ that reminder that Obadiah Stane was dead. _Wanted_ that certainty, that sureness, whenever he woke up screaming in his bed, chest tight from a remembered cardiac arrest. _Wanted_ that reminder, that reassurance, every time he scrabbled at his chest for the comforting cool weight that was keeping him alive. That same dark, vicious part of him wished that he'd ended Stane with his own hands, even as the rest of him was glad that he never had to.

“Again, Mr. Stark, we deeply apologize,” Cheung tried again, attempting to steer the meeting back on track. “We realize...this must be a very difficult time for you.”

“It is,” Tony ground out, but they would never know why.

 

**3.**

 

Tony Stark had never gotten along with his father, and his grief at his parents' passing had a been a painful, complicated thing. But with the benefit of adult hindsight and the wisdom of regrettable experience, he understood – at least eventually – a little of where his father had came from, understood how watching the world burn, watching charred flesh peel off bone, could and did break a man. Tony had the ability to change, a chance to start making amends; his father never did.

They were, and were not, so different in the end, and sometimes he wished it didn't take until 20 years after his father's passing for him to realize this. (To be fair, a child should not be held responsible for his parents' failures, and a part of him would always resent Howard for it.)

But even in those very early years, where the grief was still fresh and the bitterness was at its blackest, he visited his parents' grave every year on the anniversary of their deaths. Obie'd insisted.

“He was your father,” Obie'd said, solemn and gentle, but brooking no argument. “I know things were tense between you two but you owe him this much.”

Truthfully, Tony only went because of Obie's request, and more than once he'd whispered to the grave that “the father that _counted_ was _still here_.”

It was harder to think that, now. After all, 'the father that counted' pulled out his mechanical heart; 'the father that never was' saved his life, nearly 20 years after he'd died. It made him wonder if 'Obie' had only been a first-class act all along, or if somewhere along the way, Howard wasn't the only one who'd changed.

But regardless, he would still have to pretend, because to the world, Obadiah Stane had been his second father all his life. Even if he wasn't about to immortalize Stane like he did his mother with the Maria Stark Foundation, the world still expected an acknowledgment.

“...and, to finish up. It's been a hell of a year, but I – and Stark Industries – have come out stronger than ever,” Tony said quietly into the mike. The crowd murmured, staring back with dark, solemn eyes.

Tony drew a breath, forcibly loosened his fist from the lapels of his jacket. “I'd like to dedicate tonight to...Obie.” His voice cracked, the flimsy words wafting away like motes of cremated ash. “He's been with SI since the beginning, and left years before his time. Obie's always been the one keeping everything running smoothly while Dad and I did the R&D. Maybe if he was still around, all the explosions – literal and metaphorical – this past year would've gone...easier.”

Maybe they wouldn't have happened at all, if it'd been _Obie_ here, not _Stane_. But weren't they one and the same?

“I'd trade...” Stane's life for Howard's. Howard for Obie. One father for the other. Both men had been pretty spectacular failures, in the end. “I'd give a lot to have Obie back.” Tony swallowed hard, lifted his glass, a sea of glasses answering his toast. “To Obie.”

To Obie, _and_ to Stane. If nothing else, he was never two minds about anything. Unlike another man of two-faced fame, Obadiah Stane left nothing to chance. Anything he did, he did all the way.

All for the best, really. Chance invited possibility, perchance to live; Tony didn't know if he could've ended him twice.

 

**4.**

 

Every Father's Day, Steve Rogers visited the memorial graves from WWI and WWII. Tony was aware that Private Joseph Rogers died of mustard gas during the first World War, but he hadn't been able to resist asking who Steve commemorated as a second father.

“Colonel Chester Phillips,” Steve answered, eyes distant and wistful. “He...was my CO. We got off to a bit of a rough start, what with my being a touring monkey in tights. But he backed me when it mattered.” His voice caught slightly. “I wish he'd survived the war.”

And Tony couldn't think of a response to that – not because he was surprised that Steve found a substitute father, but envious of him having a father-figure at all. A _decent_ father-figure, anyway, who'd remained as fond in memory as he did in life – something that Tony, for all his attempts and riches, never obtained.

Steve recognized his pause, gave him a crooked smile. “I guess you...don't do Father's Day, huh.” It was gentle, a little sad, and completely not accusatory; for all Steve liked the man, he was well aware that Howard hadn't ever been Father of the Year.

“Don't have any worth remembering,” he shrugged, except that was a lie too. Because Howard and Obie both were memorable, for all _and_ because of their faults; even if he remembered more of the empty bottles than faded pictures, whispered threats than chess matches, all of them had happened nonetheless.

Steve's smile turned a little pained, but he wisely didn't press further. The man's face was an open book, however; Tony could read the curiosity on his face, and moved to cut it off at the pass: “Obie wasn't my father. Good as – better than, even – at some points, but. Still. Not my relations.”

“Family is what you make of it,” Steve said, heavy and quiet. “Bucky – he was my brother from another mother. Didn't matter we didn't share a drop of blood; I'd have given him mine any day. The only family that matters is the blood you choose.”

Tony bristled, eyes ablaze; he did _not_ need to be patronized by Captain fucking America. “Yeah? Where's your family now?”

Something flashed across Steve's eyes, two spots of colour stark on his face; he stared steadily at Tony, his expression as much anger as pain.

Tony's ire rushed out of him, followed by a hot, roiling wave of shame; he dropped his gaze, clenched his fists at his sides. “Sorry.”

“'s okay.” It really wasn't, but Steve was trying all the same. “Even when I knew him, Howard...wasn't the father type. I'm glad he was able to do right by you, at least a little, in the end,” a short, aborted gesture at his chest, “and I'm glad someone...better...took his place.”

Tony didn't bother correcting him. Steve held Howard in no small esteem; it cost Steve enough to admit this much. No point in telling him that even in this, Howard had been wrong.

He nodded instead, a small, jerky motion. “Yeah.”

And he remembered the reports he finally was able to bring himself to read, weeks after Vanko's death. Brake malfunctions, black ice, blood alcohol content too high. Such a textbook case of DUI.

But Tony was his father's son, and he's seen his father put together _bombs_ with three times the drink. And worn brakes, from a legion of cars so carefully maintained...the swiftness of the process, with none of the red tape...it was a little odd, if he squinted at an angle and read between the lines.

Nothing could be proven now, of course, so long after the fact; especially not with the suspect dead and gone. Tony made sure Stane wasn't buried beside his parents (he would've, once upon a time), but that wasn't even cold comfort, never mind reprieve.

It was hard to believe that a man with sight could have been so blind. And then, the genius's son, to have made the same mistakes...

Steve was still watching him, hurt and sorry and fierce; Tony shook his head, forced a hollow smile onto his face.

“I miss him. Them,” and wasn't that a lie for both their sakes?

 

**5.**

 

It had been Fury's idea. Now that they were all (more or less) SHIELD agents and/or consultant staff, he'd decreed that every one of them was to be as prepared and combat-trained as their unique circumstances allowed. Chances were that only Natasha, Clint and Steve would ever use a handgun in battle (and even then, Steve and Clint were unlikely), but learning wouldn't hurt.

They started with field-stripping weapons; two hours after that, they moved onto actual targets. “Begin with - ” had barely left Clint's mouth before Tony calmly picked up a Beretta and reeled off three bull's eyes.

He shrugged off their surprise: “Weapons contractor.”

Clint grinned, rueful and approving. “Maybe _you_ should be teaching this, then.”

The soldiers didn't _need_ any teaching, and Tony left the three to their shooting contest. Bruce and Thor needed a little more instruction, but they caught on quickly; Tony meandered away once they began steadily shooting.

He picked up the Beretta again, running fingers over the barrel. And there were ghosts in his head, the memory of much larger hands enveloping his, adjusting his arms, his feet; another set of eyes staring down the sights, a soft, measured voice in his ear: “feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly flexed, body leaning forward; shoulders beyond hips, hips beyond knees. Thumbs tucked, Tony, wrists straight...”

He lifted the gun, pulled the trigger (“with the crease of your finger, Tony, not the pad”). Fire, fire, fire; he knew without looking that they were three perfect shots: throat, chest, and head.

“You're good, Stark,” the trio had stopped their match, and Clint regarded him with interest. “Who taught you how to shoot?”

He half-wanted to lie, to say Howard did, if only to spare Steve that wistful, pained look whenever he spoke ill of Howard, but it slipped out before he could: “Obadiah did.”

Natasha and Clint's eyes darkened slightly while Steve's expression softened. Tony shrugged, trying to affect a nonchalant air. “We're iron mongers. Wouldn't be much of one if we didn't know our wares.” He swallowed, drew a breath, and his voice _did not catch:_ “Obie ran the business end; you wouldn't think a guy like that could shoot, but he could blow you away at this as easily as he did at chess...”

And Natasha and Clint were _looking_ at him now, the faintest creases of concern on their brows; Tony knew that they knew, and he knew what they were thinking: _stupid, Stark, don't do this to yourself, you don't have to pretend..._

Except he didn't _know_ if he was pretending, because Obie _had_ been there over the years, for shooting lessons and chess matches and graduations that Howard hadn't attended. Tony'd give him that, at least – he'd _been there_ , when Howard had never been.

Bruce and Thor had stopped, too; Thor was watching him, painful realization dawning in too-old eyes, and damn him, _damn Loki_ , for making him understand. “He was...family? By choice, not by blood?”

“Family's what you make of it,” he said, and he's looking right at Steve; they're all he has too, aside from Pepper and Rhodey and his bots.

Steve inclined his head a fraction – acknowledged, and returned the same; Tony looked down at his gun, sleek black death in his hands.

It was the nitrocellulose, he told himself, that was making his eyes sting.

 

**+1**

 

 

Obadiah Stane didn't have much in the way of family; maybe that was why he got on so well with Howard, back in the day. He had said, rather famously (and ironically, in retrospect) that “the Starks _are_ my family”.

Therefore, it was front-page news when Tony Stark was _not_ named as the executor or beneficiary in his will. In fact, _no one_ was directly named as the beneficiary, although Obadiah had taken great pains to organize and set aside his assets nonetheless. Was he planning on living forever, or did he have more secrets, another someone to take his stead later in life?

Tony didn't know; didn't much care. He wasn't surprised, but he had to act the part; to the public, he was the closest thing Obadiah had to a son. The judge had, more than once, asked Tony if he would like them to overturn the (very legal but incredibly vague) terms of the will and appoint him as the executor and/or beneficiary.

It made headlines the world over when Tony Stark turned him down flat.

“I don't want his money. It's not mine,” he snapped, when Thor inquired to the state of Obadiah's affairs. His face hurt from smiling.

“It's more yours than anyone else's,” Bruce pointed out gently. “They're largely from SI, and you were...practically his son.”

And he should've said something neutral, should've just pointed out that Obadiah would've _listed_ him if he wanted him to have it, or something of that stripe. But he was just so fucking _tired_ of pretending, of keeping his game face on; there was a ringing in his ears and he didn't realize what he'd done until the glass shattered against the wall, a spray of whiskey on white.

“He tried to _kill me_ ,” Tony breathed into the silence, staccato-sharp and trembling. “My hands aren't fucking clean either and neither were my dad's, but I haven't sunk so low that I need to accept handouts from the guy who'd nearly _murdered_ us _both_.”

He didn't – couldn't – look at their faces, whirled and stalked away; silence followed him out, stunned and rueful both.

Good. Maybe now, SHIELD could fucking lie for themselves.

 

She found him on the balcony, halfway through his bottle; she leaned against the railing, arms crossed, watching him drink. Tony didn't look at her. Stared past his glass instead, at the blinding kaleidoscope of New York's nights.

At least it was Natasha. Better her than anyone else.

“I killed him,” he finally said, after four more glasses. He still didn't look at her. “Why doesn't that make me feel better?”

“When it does, you'll be too far gone.” The wind blew chill through her words.

“You'd think I'd at least feel satisfied,” he spat. “Even Vanko, I could see where he was coming from. I'd kill me too, if I'd watched my father die in poverty and ruin because of me. That was _personal_. What the fuck reason did _he_ have, to kill all of us?” He poured another glass, but his eyes were dark and terrible and _nowhere near drunk_. “30 years he held us up. He _was_ my father, all those years. How many of those years was he ready to stab us in the back?”

She studied him, lovely face delicate and hard and sharp as a knife, waited patiently until he stopped for breath, his lashes wet and chest heaving. “Tell me, Stark...do you think I'm a bad person?”

Tony actually looked at her, taken aback by the non-sequitur. “No?” And he hated that he made that a question, but she didn't seem to mind.

She smiled a bloodless smile, clean and thin as a razor's edge. “And if the families of those I killed were to meet me on the streets, I am sure they would disagree.”

“That's not - ” The Red Room made it _different_ , and what the fuck did that have to do with anything at all?

Natasha stared at him, all of Mother Russia's winters in her eyes. “Would you say that you're a better person now than you were before...that?” A sharp gesture towards his chest. “Probably not, but at least you're trying now. Won't be enough, will _never_ be enough, but people don't see it that way, do they?” Her mouth twisted, expression bitter and wistful both. “People live in the present, Stark, and their favour is fickle and mercurial. We're heroes _now_ because we're doing good _now_ , but those who knew us _then_ would strongly disagree. And those that've died have their memories forever judged by what they did last.”

“You know, you are _really fucking terrible_ at this comfort thing - ”

“People's wrongs are as much a part of them as their rights,” she interrupted, harsh but not angry. “I'm not saying he didn't deserve to die, but that does not wipe out the good he did do in your life. And you'll never understand the motives, 30 years past, of a man now turned to ash; it'll do you no good to question why.”

“That's not an answer,” he snapped.

“No,” she agreed. “People like us, we don't get answers.” Her eyes darkened with echoes of her own old, unhappy, far-off things. “We are, neither of us, who we want to be.”

She turned to leave, all silent, deadly grace. Tony stared after her, hand unconsciously creeping towards his chest; the arc reactor gleamed through his too-thin shirt, a heavy heart full of light.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This was very loosely based on the Kübler-Ross model of the Five Stages of Grief, referring specifically to the acceptance of Obadiah's betrayal (and not, precisely, his continued existence). Some references were...obvious, most were very subtle.
> 
> \- It seemed like Tony's box-of-scraps arc reactor was the only one that needed assistance to remove due to the exposed wire that caused shorting. Every other arc reactor seemed to be one-person-operable (Tony removed his palladium one several times in IM2 to change the core, and the vibranium one was one-person as well).
> 
> \- The bonus was a nod to Ezekiel Stane, although I doubt he'd ever show up in MCU.
> 
> \- From a discussion with the OP, I've decided that Fury, Coulson, Natasha and Clint (through Coulson or Natasha) probably knew about Obadiah's betrayal, but the thorough details were omitted from the dossiers (since it's not something Tony'd want advertised). Thus, Steve, Bruce and Thor vaguely knew of Obadiah, and the tension his name brought, but didn't know why.
> 
> \- The stance Obadiah taught Tony is the modern isosceles, which I use myself at the range.


End file.
